I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed!The flower of Mercy! that within its heartDoth keep "a drop serene" for human need,A drowsy balm for every bitter smart.For happy hours the Rose will idly blow , The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare,And left the flushed print in a poppy there:Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame.With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drankThe blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank,And clipped its cup in the purpurate shineWhen the eastern conduits ran with wine.